The Ones Who Live Forever
by Ricks2CCurls
Summary: A priestess and warrior, a queen and her knight, and two deadly outlaws. What could Rick and Michonne possibly have in common with them? Everything and nothing. Rated M for violence and sexual situations.


**A/N: I've been working on a multi-chapter fic when this idea hit me while listening to Center of Attention by Jackson Waters (a Richonne anthem tbh) so I decided a short story would be a more ideal foray into the world of Richonne fanfiction. I have a second part planned with two more drastically different ideas but wanted to post this before I wimped out. Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

Rick Grimes is and always has been a man of action. Thus, to a man like Rick, fate is a silly concept. At best, it's nothing more than a wishful idea that grants the naive a source of comfort. At worst, it's a way to absolve humanity of its many shortcomings.

At one time, Rick was fairly steadfast in his thinking but nowadays he questions many of his beliefs. His belief in fairness, in compassion, in vindication among other things. Leading a ragtag group of total strangers at the end of the world will do that to a person. This mentally and physically scarred Rick often flits between at least several emotional dilemmas daily but the one thing he is absolutely certain of is that there is no fate.

It was free will that led to him working his way through the ranks of King County's Police Department. That drove a man to plant a bullet in his shoulder. It was Morgan's and Glenn's kindness along with self-determination that reunited him with his family. It was Shane's lust and envy that forced his hand.

It was his own failures that resulted in him currently gazing at the apparition of his dead wife while his son contended with his own demons.

So if you asked Rick beforehand if there's a set of events that predetermine the future then he'd readily assert that no, there is no fate.

If you ask him after he caught sight of the strange, lone woman with the katana and baby formula then he might just hesitate to answer.

* * *

There's nothing particularly spectacular about her. As the fiercest and greatest fighter of the war, a fact he regularly regards without humility or irony, he's seen and experienced many a female body. He's aware he'll die a young death, banks on it in fact, so he figures why not indulge in what hedonistic whims appeal to him. Her quivering, grimy figure shouldn't cause something not only in his loins but in his chest to clench almost painfully but yet it does.

He immediately takes note of the golden, sun-dyed strands of hair woven through her dark brown locs. Only her huddled profile is available to him but it's enough to see that her tear-stained features are endearingly cherubic and from the looks of it quite attractive.

As he unabashedly strips himself of his armor, he runs his sharp azure orbs over her body with an equal lack of shame. Her figure is hidden from view by virgin robes. He can't contain his scoff and neither does he try to.

Her skin has the glow of his armor and the quality of a carefully sculpted bronze statue. If it weren't for her incessant shaking, she could almost be mistaken for an actual statue, he muses.

A sudden growing urge to be nearer arises and never one to deny himself, he approaches with the curiosity of a lion. Stooping low, he grasps a handful of her locs with a gentleness that belies his strength. He takes a slow, indulgent whiff. Olive oil. She's royalty, he confirms.

He continues to gingerly finger her soft hair all the while studying her face for a reaction. He wonders if her ever-rising discomfort is a result of his intense stare or nudity. After a few more moments, he gives her a reprieve from what he's sure is her true fear.

"No worries, virgin. I prefer my women willing and experienced," he says with an undertone of mocking tossing her hair into her face.

He's almost taken aback by the sharp turn of her head. He holds her steely gaze and marvels over the sudden change in her demeanor. He allows a smirk to overcome his otherwise nonchalant face. The wench has spunk.

His war prize brings him much amusement. Uncouth she calls him, gullible he calls her. It becomes somewhat of a game seeing who can antagonize the other more. She gives as good as she gets, often resulting in him fleeing the hut to cool his calm head but he figures her smug self-righteousness is a better alternative than the gloomy disposition that she slips into when she thinks he's not looking. He's always looking, observing.

She's undoubtedly lived a sheltered life, free from trials and tribulations. Until now that is. He refuses to acknowledge the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach at this fact. Instead he busies himself taunting her dedication to the Gods.

She's headstrong in her beliefs, a quality he silently admires. Yet still, he questions her dedication considering the Gods would apparently allow their own temple to be ransacked, sullied with the blood of their worshippers and left with the brief memory of a now captive acolyte. The unsettling feeling returns but the need to rid her of her naivete is greater. Endearing her guilelessness may be but innocence doesn't last long in this world.

He freely admits he's a bastard for keeping her, especially knowing that his days are drawing to a close.

It isn't until the spiteful ruler takes the girl that he admits there's more than her company that has his vision swimming red and veins pumping fire. This is more than a petty squabbling between two egos. He thinks of her wide, almond-shaped eyes, stern mouth and unflattering robes. He thinks of his unsaid promise to her and his failure to protect her from what he's sure is no doubt taking place right now. He can taste venom in his mouth and feels the insatiable need to embed his teeth in the swine that claimed what wasn't his to claim. With a bloodthirst unlike any other he's ever felt, on or off the battlefield, he could defeat any army single-handedly. A thought he fully intends on turning into action. Tilting his head side to side, he wills the waters of his rage to boil over and fuel him to protect the priestess who had so enraptured his soul.

And boil over it does when he receives word that his beloved cousin has fallen in his stead. He allows fury to encase him in stone and harden him for what he has to do. Nothing can penetrate the shell. Not even her face when he drags her cousin's mutilated carcass through the grounds of Troy back to his camp.

When she's returned to him, untouched and unscathed, he should feel triumphant. But besides the relief he feels for her safety, bitterness and self-loathing threatens to crack his armor. She looks at him with a mixture of disappointment and pity. He wants none of it. Yet she remains in his hut, away from the lustful hands of his comrades.

He should rid of her, he knows. The innocent priestess of Apollo has weaseled her way under his defenses. She's too close. So close he finds himself with a dagger poised at his jugular. He anticipated the brazen move long before he placed the weapon at his bedside. He could easily toss her clear across the space before she thought to gasp and had she been any other woman, he would have. But somehow the thought of distance between them creates an unease much worse than the pressure on his Adam's apple.

She huskily asks him if he believes in fate.

He answers no without pause.

Brown clashes with blue. A war wages within her, one that he patiently lets her decide the outcome of.

The dagger's pressure slightly increases. "Then what's to stop me right now? I could end this. I could avenge my family. A life for a life right?" Her voice wavers but her hand remains stable. She's sublime. His innocent spitfire is a viper ready to strike at any moment.

"You could. You could do it." It's both encouragement and admittance. She could do it and he'd let her. He relaxes his hands face down on the bed to emphasize the point.

His viper uncoils as the first tear spills. She questions how she could feel this way towards a man like him if fate wasn't real. It had to be. Otherwise she could never fall in love with him. For the first time, she's uncertain.

Tact isn't his strong suit. Lying isn't in his nature. He wishes he could tell her what she wants to hear. He settles for telling her what she should hear.

Humans are fatally flawed and doomed upon birth. To a mortal, life is fleeting and therefore that much sweeter. Who could fault them? Not even the Gods could. In fact, they envy them because they're are the ones who truly live.

His hands had slowly risen in the midst of his speech. Calloused hands that had brutally and unflinchingly condemned an uncountable amount of lives tenderly fell upon her thighs. His touch was so soft it was nonexistent, almost as if he feared she would flee at a sudden movement.

"Only you can decide whether or not you live."

The question was unspoken but received nonetheless. He was giving her an in and also an out. Her answer came in the form of soft, trembling lips grazing against scarred pink ones.

The dagger bitterly and pleasurably bit into his flesh as he gripped her thighs swiftly changing their positions. Blood dripped onto her pristine white nightgown but neither took notice. Lost in one another's feverish embrace, she found something that was lost and he found something that was never had. Peace.

Her limp hand remained buried in his sweat-soaked curls later that night as he studied her in one's most vulnerable state. Her brown skin glowed serenely, her already plump lips swollen and her tresses tossed haphazardly among the pillows imitating threads made of a fine fabric. His muscular, deep ivory figure made a startling contrast against hers.

He delighted in the dizzying euphoria and as the sun rose he hardened himself once again. Before the last piece of his armor is in place, he makes what's possibly the one selfless decision he's made in his life.

She's returned to her family and the walls that shielded her for so long. Her eyes hold a similar despair to a time that seems so long ago when home was the only thing she yearned for. He knows she understands though. She's seen the outcome of illicit love, knows that a happy ending is too much to ask for even from the Gods.

Yet still, her soul reaches out to anyone and anything when her cousin's arrow pierces his heel. The scent of olive oil clinging to his nose, he resolves to carry her memory with him wherever he may go at the same time she resolves they're not done here. No matter how many lifetimes it takes, they'll get their happy ending whether the Gods decide it or if she has to fight fate itself. They'll live again.


End file.
